This Is How It Happened (4 page)

The Friday after Carlton gave me the Juliet ring, we packed up my Volvo with suitcases and drove to Houston for the weekend. Carlton’s Honda was still on the blink, but instead of buying a new battery, Carlton said he was going to splurge on our hotel.

“Houston’s expensive as shit,” he’d said, in a caustic voice. “But we’re not staying at some fucking Hampton Inn when the rest of the wedding party is staying at the Houstonian.”

Carlton’s father was getting married again. His fifth or sixth time around—I couldn’t remember which. And neither could Carlton.

“Let’s see. There was that waitress from Denver,” Carlton said, counting on his fingers. “But that only lasted a month. So I think they annulled it. That makes five,” he said, flashing me all five of his fingers.

“Getting married five or six times is a very
Texas
thing to do,” I said.

“Well, howdy fucking doo-dah,” Carlton replied, gunning the accelerator. We cruised down I-10, past the Katy outlet mall, the strip centers filled with Home Depots, Walmarts, Exxons, and McDonald’s—the sprawling concrete jungle that stretched like open arms into the city. A green sign on the side of the highway said
HOUSTON 17 MILES
.

I shrugged my shoulders. “Don’t hold it against your dad, Carlton. Some men are the marrying type.”

Carlton shook his head, a bitter look on his face. “My dad is the RE-marrying type,” he said, simply. “But at least he’s got a pre-nup that’s tighter than The Donald’s.”

“Who’s the lucky bride?” I asked.

“Some flight attendant. Holly something or other. She works the first-class section. Dad met her on a flight to New York. They spent their first weekend together at the Ritz in Central Park.” Carlton put his hand to his ear and said, “Can’t you hear the wedding bells, Maddy?”

“I’m sure she’s a very nice person,” I deadpanned.

“They’re all nice,” Carlton said. “Especially when they see the checking account.”

“C’mon, babe. Give us some credit. All women aren’t gold diggers.”

Carlton rolled his head dramatically in my direction. “Not all women. Not you,” he said. “You fell in love with me despite my Honda.”

“That’s right, Romeo,” I said, plugging my finger into his arm. “And don’t you forget it.”

An hour later, Carlton and I checked into our luxurious king-sized room at the Houstonian Hotel. We “christened” the bed first, with quick athletic sex, and then showered and got ready for the wedding.

I wore a tight aqua-blue dress I got on sale at Saks. It wasn’t ugly aqua like something a mermaid would wear; it was the softest, palest blue you could imagine. And it really brought out the color of my skin, which being a Piatro, was on the olive side.

Carlton wore his favorite Italian suit with a blue tie. When we were finished getting ready, he said, “Sorry, sweetie. I forgot your blue wrist corsage.”

I giggled and covered my mouth. “I forgot your blue boutonniere.”

He grabbed me and swung me around in a dance circle.

“We’re not too matchy-matchy, are we?” I asked, wrapping my arm around his waist and posing in front of the bathroom mirror.

“Who cares?” he mumbled. He suddenly spotted the Juliet ring on my finger. In one quick motion, he grabbed my hand and rolled the ring off my finger.

“Hey!” I said.

“Don’t wear this tonight,” he said, holding the ring in front of my nose. “I don’t want my dad to think we got engaged without telling him. This is
his
night.”

I smiled at Carlton and nodded. For now, the Juliet ring would be our little secret.

The entire wedding was held inside the Grand Ballroom of the Houstonian Hotel. The ceremony itself lasted four minutes. Carlton’s father recited his vows as if they were second-nature. Like a hiccup.

The reception, on the other hand, was just like Carlton’s dad. Big and bold, and a little on the wild side. A lavish, Texas-sized affair, complete with rib eye steaks the size of footballs, and strolling mariachis singing “La Cucaracha.”

Forest Connors greeted us underneath one of the sprawling chandeliers. He smiled his big-tooth, politician’s smile and waved his broad hand. He was wearing a black suit instead of a tuxedo. And black cowboy boots.

El Diablo.

“Madeline,” he said, inclining his head in my direction.

“Mr. Connors,” I replied.

“Glad you could make it, son!” he said, clapping Carlton on the back.

Carlton gave his dad an awkward sideways hug, and said, “You know I never miss one of your weddings, Dad.”

“Aw, shucks, son! Cut your old man a break.” Forest Connors chuckled.

“I read somewhere that married men live longer,” I piped up.

Forest Connors looked down his nose at me as if I were some kind of flea or tick.

“Hell, Madeline! Why would anyone want to
grow old
?” Forest Connors boomed. He pointed his finger and stabbed it in my direction. “Better to lead a fast life, die young, and look good in your coffin. Right, Son?” he said, nudging Carlton.

“Whatever you say, Dad.”

“Life is short, Madeline. I can always make more money. But I can’t make any more time,” Forest Connors said. He winked at Carlton and walked away.

It was disarming. The way Forest Connors walked and talked. With his snakeskin cowboy boots and Texas twang. On the outside, he had the genuineness of a pure country bumpkin—the type of guy you see driving a tractor on the side of the road. Chewing on a sprig of mint.

And yet, it was his eyes that bothered me. When I looked into his hawkish dark eyes, I saw that Forest Connors was a solid force of a man. Those eyes held sheer raw, unadulterated power.

For the rest of the night, whenever I was around Mr. Connors, I felt uneasy. When I laughed, I laughed too loudly. That type of thing. Secretly, I thought Carlton’s father believed women should be seen and not heard.

Perhaps it’s because he had a slew of ex-wives. And Carlton told me they were each less challenging than the previous.

Forest Connor’s latest addition to the Connors clan was a blonde bombshell named Holly. She was thirty-nine years old, a former Miss Texas pageant finalist, and a plastic surgeon’s wet dream.

Whenever Carlton saw her blazing toward us in her fire-engine red wedding dress, he’d look at me and say, “Holy Shit. Here Comes Holly!”

“Talk about eye candy,” I said, conspiratorially.

“Stale eye candy,” Carlton said, and we both laughed like criminals.

I know he secretly resented the silky white Mercedes convertible his father had given Holly as a wedding gift—parked outside the hotel entrance for everyone to admire, with a big red bow wrapped around it—especially since Carlton still bumped around in his rusty Honda.

But there was more to it than that, I thought.

“I don’t understand why my dad is never satisfied with one woman. I guess my old man prefers the all-u-can-eat buffet,” Carlton said, as we danced to the wedding band playing an awful rendition of “Brown Eyed Girl.” He encircled his arms around my waist and held me tightly.

“Apples don’t fall far from the tree, babe,” I teased.

Carlton smiled his sexy, sideways smile. “Don’t worry, darlin’,” he whispered. “I’m a single entree kind of guy.”

And I, of course, being the sucker that I am, totally believed him.

I arrive at The Tavern early, of course. I’m dressed in wrinkled jeans and a stained white T-shirt that says, “South Padre Island.” On the back of the shirt, in tiny blue letters, it reads,
STAND STRONG 2 THE WINDS OF CHANGE.

So here I am. In a smelly bar. Waiting for my brother. And standing strong to the winds of change.

The bartender approaches me armed with this smarmy smile.

“You look like you could use a drink, Missy,” is his opening line.

“Thanks, but I’ll just have a coke.”

“Sure you don’t want me to pour a shot of Jack on top?”

“It’s not even noon,” I say.

“Time is what you make of it.”

See, here’s the problem with Austin, Texas. Everyone’s a closet intellect. No one is who they seem to be. Your barman is probably a PhD in Philosophy or English Lit; your waitress, a budding filmmaker.

My closet intellect bartender slides the glass toward me. He looks a little disappointed that I’m not DRINKING drinking.

I sit on the barstool and sip my coke. Ronnie is a former alcoholic and drug addict so I never drink alcohol around him. He tells me it’s okay. “Don’t worry, Maddy. You won’t get me back off the wagon,” he says. But I figure if I was a chocoholic, I’d be pissed if someone wolfed down a Snickers right in front of me.

My brother strolls in the door. He’s wearing a Longhorns shirt, of course, because he bleeds burnt orange. His hair is messed up on top. A serious case of bed-head.

“I’ve been staring at my computer for the past nine hours,” he says, rubbing both his eyes like he used to do when he was a little boy.

“Trying to save the world again?” I ask.

He shoots me a look. “One teenager at a time, Maddy. That’s my motto.

My brother is a rehab counselor for troubled teens. And he takes the hard cases, because he used to be a hard case himself. He says he feels lucky to be alive and that the rehab business is his “life calling.”

I’ve seen him in action. Three nights a week my brother lectures for free at the local community center. He’s gotten quite a following and even started a Monday night volunteer crisis-counseling hotline—where neither he nor any of the crisis counselors get paid. They work all night long. And the phones ring nonstop.

I know because I’ve volunteered. Not a lot. But enough to know my brother is making a difference.

He counsels kids who have abused more alcohol and street drugs than anyone cares to think about. Kids with dim, weary, aging eyes. The kind of eyes that have seen too much in their short time.

My brother calls these kids his “Miracle Teens.”

“Every one of them needs a miracle,” he says.

I motion to the bartender and order a coke, two cheeseburgers, onion rings instead of fries, and extra pickles.

My brother and I have been doing this burger gig a long time.

“So, you want to kill Carlton?” my brother says, most bluntly.

“Yes.”

“With poison brownies?”

I slurp my coke out of the straw and don’t answer.

“Like some Grim Reaping Martha Stewart?” my brother asks.

The bartender slides two greasy red baskets in front of us.

I rub my hands together and dig in.

“You’re not answering me,” my brother says.

“Off with his head!” I say, biting into my juicy cheeseburger. I wipe my mouth with my napkin. My brother watches me, carefully.

“Don’t you dare tell me I have to be strong,” I say.

“You have to be strong,” Ronnie says. He’s ignoring his food, which is odd for him, because that guy can really pack it down.

“How long has it been, Maddy? three, four months? And you’re still obsessed. You think killing Carlton is going to bring you closure?”

“I know it sounds crazy, Ronnie, but I think it’s the only sane thing to do,” I mumble.

“Ask yourself why,” my brother replies. He likes to do this. It’s a counseling technique.

I decide to ignore the question.

“Mange, mange,” I say, pointing to his food.

He pushes the basket away from him. Okay. Stop the presses. My brother
never
does this. He can usually pack away a cheeseburger, maybe two, and still manage to stay rail thin.

He swings around on his bar stool and stares at me, his fist pressed against his thigh. His green eyes are bright and flashy so I know he’s upset.

Ronnie and I are both full-blooded Italian on our father’s side, and while we each got the naturally tan olive skin and thick dark hair, my brother got these flashy green Italian eyes—while I was stuck with boring, run-of-the-mill hazel. Ronnie’s eyes are so expressive when he’s angry, he could make even the biggest felon in a motorcycle gang take two steps backward. My brother isn’t a big guy, but he’s got enough Italian Stallion in him to make other men think twice.

“What’s going on with you, Maddy?” he says, slapping his hand against the bar. “You’ve never been like this. You’re the bounce-back kid, remember? Always Miss Positive. Where’s the person who says if life gives you lemons, put on a party dress and go out for cocktails? What did you do with my big sister?” he demands, and his face is dead serious.

I swirl an onion ring around in ketchup. Pop it in my mouth. Chew.

“You don’t know all the facts,” I say.

“I know Carlton was a shit head,” Ronnie says. “I knew it from the first day I met Prince Charming.”

“You should’ve told me!”

“I did. Remember? I said, ‘Maddy, watch out for this cat.’ I wouldn’t trust a man who looks at himself in the mirror for that long—especially after he takes a freakin’ piss. I swear we were in the john together and he was gussing around with his hair like he was the Prom King!”

I think for a moment. I don’t remember my brother saying this but I was so blinded by Carlton’s sun, it wouldn’t have mattered.

“You don’t understand, Ronnie. I can’t sit back and let him railroad all over me!”

“Cut your losses,” my brother says. “Start a new life—without dick face.”

I shake my head back and forth.

“You’ve gone through way more trauma than this, Maddy! Remember when Mom and Dad died? You told me it was God’s will. And that they were in a better place. You were solid as a rock. What are you saying? That you got taken by some lousy guy. So what? So now you’re a wet noodle? Some weak-willed, whiney-ass girl?”

“I’m unemployed, Ronnie! I sank everything I had into that company!”

“You got sucker-punched by that bastard. But what are you gonna do? Lie down and let him kick dirt in your face? Or stand up, brush yourself off, and tell him to go fuck himself? I mean, c’mon, Maddy. You can get a new job. A woman with your talent and credentials. Fuckin’ A, Maddy—you started that company from the ground up and ran with it. You made him successful. He was the face of the operation. But you were the brains. The woman behind the scenes. You can do it again.”

This is, apparently, my brother’s idea of a pep talk. He doesn’t realize how hard it is to jumpstart a brand new company. How I spent four years working my tail off—day and night. And how, after this sucker-punch, I just don’t have it in me.

I realize, suddenly, that I need a major chocolate fix.

I raise my arm in the air, wave crazily at the bartender, and say, “Yo!” The bartender strolls over.

“Have you decided to get shit faced?” he asks.

(P.S. I really hate it when people say this.)

“Do you have chocolate milkshakes?” I ask.

He wipes his hand on a bar towel and informs me, “I’ve got milk and ice cream but none of that chocolate syrup. So I can make ya’ vanilla.”

My brother reaches down and pulls a Hershey bar from his messenger bag. “Use this,” he says, slapping it down on the bar.

“This is my little brother and my hero,” I tell the bartender.

“Aw, how sweet,” the bartender says in a deadpan voice.

My brother shoots me a look.

“You know, Maddy. Real assassins don’t drink chocolate milkshakes,” he says.

I guess he has a point.

“If you want me to kick his ass, I’ll kick his ass.” Ronnie grabs his basket and finally bites into his cheeseburger.

I try to imagine my brother and Carlton scuffling around on the ground. My brother would win, of course. Assuming that it was a fair fight. But I wouldn’t put it past Carlton to use some cheap, dirty trick. Like throwing sand in Ronnie’s eyes and punching him in the kidneys.

“I don’t want you to get involved,” I say.

“I don’t want you to get involved,” my brother chirps, mimicking my voice.

“Maybe I should hire someone.”

My brother sits back on his stool and claps his hands together. “Bravo, Maddy. That’s just what you need. A hit man. Good idea.”

“Do you know someone?” I ask. And it’s not an off-the-wall question. My brother knows some shady characters from his drug-running days. He used to work for a man named Snoop Santino, one of the most notorious drug kingpins in South Texas.

“What about…” I hesitate. “What about Snoop?” I ask, finally.

I’ve got Ronnie’s full attention now.

“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that,” he says, in a soft tone. When my brother is infuriated, he speaks in a hushed tone like this. It’s entirely frightening.

“You don’t know what you’re messing with when you throw out a name like Snoop Santino,” Ronnie says.

“Well, we’ve both known him since we were kids.”

“Yeah, Maddy. That was back then. Before he got damaged. Before he decided to nose-dive into a life of thieving and drug dealing.”

Then Ronnie does something that he rarely does, ever. He pulls up the side of his T-shirt, and points at the bullet wound. It’s on the left, near his rib cage. “Clean entry and exit” is what the surgeon told me that night. When Ronnie was fighting for his life.

“Remember who I was with when I got shot, Maddy?”

I’m quiet. Maybe bringing up Snoop Santino’s name wasn’t such a good idea. But deep down, people envy criminals, don’t they? Isn’t that why the Sopranos was so popular?

After he got shot, my brother found God.

Now that Ronnie’s on a mission to save every teenager from drugs, he sometimes meets up with street dealers and asks them to stay away from schools.

“Leave the kids alone,” he’ll say to a small-time street dealer. Ronnie tries to reason with drug dealers. He travels to the periphery of the city, to streets where the cops don’t even go, and meets the dealers in person. And they respect him because he used to be in the trafficking business himself. He used to be in the employ of Snoop Santino, so Ronnie’s name is known around certain circles, as they say.

My little brother meets with street dealers and lays out both a moral and logical argument for why they shouldn’t sell to minors. And after each meeting, he says, very sincerely, “Thank you for your time.”

He’s got cojones, my brother.

I’ve asked him how he gets the dealers to agree to stay away from schools. “What do you offer them, Ronnie? Besides a moral argument?” I ask.

“I cut my own deals,” my brother says, simply. So I haven’t pressed the issue.

The bartender shoves a milkshake in front of me. It’s good and thick. I can see pieces of Hershey bar stuck in the sweet sludge. I reach for the glass, but Ronnie swipes it away from me.

“Hey!” I protest.

“Not so fast, sister.”

He takes a sip from the straw and smacks his lips, as if he’s just tasted heaven. He slides the glass toward me, because, for all his bark, my brother is really a big, fat softie.

I take a sip from the straw, but nothing comes out. So I use a spoon instead.

Delicious…

“Let’s forget about Snoop, then. You know of anyone else with muscle for hire?” I say.

Ronnie puts his cheeseburger down, licks his fingers. “You can’t be serious,” he says.

I stare at him, with my plain-Jane hazel eyes.

My brother shakes his head. “I’m gonna pray for you, Maddy,” he says. And just like that, he lowers his head, curls his fingers underneath his chin, and begins to pray.

Ronnie prays a lot. But usually not in public. So he must think this is an emergency.

The bartender sees my brother with his head bent low over his cheeseburger basket. He raises an eyebrow, and starts to walk over, a worried expression on his face.

I hold up a single finger and mouth the words, “One minute.” The bartender considers me, and then turns back to his bottles. I sit quietly until Ronnie finishes. My shake is melting but I don’t touch it. My brother, by the way, does not take kindly to prayer-interruption.

His head finally jolts up and he looks at me.

“All better?” I ask.

“There is great power in letting go, Maddy,” he says.

My brother, the Sensei. God, how I love that guy.